His white shirt displayed broad shoulders, while the loosened tie and open collar button showed a muscular neck. About thirty, he was good-looking enough to tempt a woman to do what she shouldn’t, and pretty enough to make every sensible word—and a lot of foolish ones—flee Francie’s brain.
In spite of that gorgeous exterior, he was cold. His hard gray glare froze her to the bone. She’d never convince him she was telling the truth.
Again, her smart mouth deserted her. Francie swallowed before she mumbled, “I went to church last Friday.”
“And?”
“And it changed me.” That was good. She sat up and met his eyes. “I’m going to try to be a better person.” She shook her head. “No, I’m going to be a better person.”
He leafed through a few pages of the folder. “I see you were redeemed once before, four years ago.”
“That wasn’t real. That was a con. Besides, I was never charged with anything that time.” Her appearance and sincerity had always been her ace in the hole. Thin, with curly black hair, innocent blue eyes and freckles, she looked young and guileless and could almost always talk her mark out of pressing charges. Too bad she wasn’t having any luck convincing Mr. Fairchild.
“So that conversion was a con? Would you explain the difference this time?”
“This isn’t a con.” She leaned forward and gave him the sincere look she’d perfected after years of practice. “You have to understand. This is real.”
He smiled but there was no humor in his expression. “Oh, I see. This one is real.”
“Please believe me. I had a real experience that healed me, inside.” She pressed her hands on her chest.
But he shook his head.
“It happened,” she said. “I know it’s hard to believe. I mean, you have my record right there in front of you, so you know I haven’t always been honest, but please, don’t doubt what happened. Don’t put it down because of my past. This one was real. Really.”
For a few seconds, he stopped smiling and studied her seriously before he laughed. “You are good. I read that in your file.” He looked at the tab on the folder. “Let’s see. Mr. Gentry, your last parole officer, wrote, ‘Frances Margaret Calhoun can make anyone believe anything.’ That’s right.” He shook his head. “You almost had me there.”
Francie sat back in her chair with a sigh. “But it is true.” Goodness, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d failed to convince someone about something.
“Okay, so if you’re redeemed, if you’ve truly gone through a religious transformation, where did you go to church Sunday?”
“I didn’t go.” That was a mistake, both for her sake and for a chance to convince Mr. Fairchild. She should have gone back Sunday morning instead of studying for a test.
He lifted his eyebrow. “I think going to church would be the first thing you would do.”
“Well, you’re right. I’m just not in the habit of that yet. Besides, not all churches welcome ex-cons.”
“The right one will. If you are sincere, the only way you’ll know is by giving the churches a try.”
She nodded.
“All right, Miss Calhoun. Why don’t you tell me how else you have changed your life?”
“I don’t know yet,” she confessed. “I mean, it just happened. I’m kind of new at this. I don’t know exactly where to start.”
“Miss Calhoun, I sincerely hope you’ve changed, but you’re going to have to convince me. That’s not going to be easy. You’re going to have to stay clean.”
“I’m going to stay clean and not only because I want to convince you.”
He shuffled through the papers and notes in her record again. “I notice Gentry didn’t keep up on your hours at work.” He looked at another page. “Are you still a waitress at the Best Diner?”
She nodded. Her former parole officer hadn’t kept track of much of anything in the months before he retired.
“You need to bring me your pay stubs so I can verify employment.”
She nodded again.
“How many hours a week are you working?”
“As many as I can get. Thirty-five to fifty.”
“And you still live in an apartment on Dixon Street?”
Hardly an apartment. “Yes.”
He made a note and checked a form. “All right. Bring me that pay stub. Keep out of trouble if you want to convince me. And work on those changes in your life.” He looked up at her frigidly for a second before closing her file and picking up another.
“That’s the problem,” she confided. “I still don’t know how to even begin with this religion thing. I mean, I’m going to find a church, but what do I do next?”
He thought for a moment. “If you want a place to start, you might try the fruit of the spirit.”
“You mean, like grapes?”
This time his smile was genuine but lasted barely a second and hardly warmed his eyes. “If you’re sincere, you’ll find that out for yourself.” He opened the other folder. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“When Mr. Gentry was my parole officer, I only came once a month.”
“I work differently.” He frowned at her. “I want to see you in two weeks to make sure you’re headed in the right direction.” He wrote a few words on his appointment calendar. “And I am going to have to visit your work site and your apartment in the next few weeks. I see Gentry didn’t do that, either.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“I think that’s everything we have time for today.” He stood and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Miss Calhoun.”
Francie took it. He had nice, strong hands, even some calluses on them, as if he’d worked in the yard or something. She turned to leave.
“Oh, Miss Calhoun, don’t forget church on Sunday.”
She looked back. “Isn’t that against the law? Mentioning religion?”
“Not if you’ve chosen it to be part of your rehabilitation program. However, I will expand my statement. I suggest you attend the temple, synagogue, mosque, church, cathedral or other religious establishment of your choice.”
“Thank you.” She left the office feeling a little off balance.
Before his retirement a month earlier, Mr. Gentry had only barked out a few questions having to do with her recent incarceration for holding up a convenience store and asked how work was going, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Mr. Fairchild seemed both more interested and more judgmental, almost as though he didn’t like her. He certainly didn’t trust her. Not that that was a bad thing. She wouldn’t trust an ex-con, either.
She wasn’t sure if she liked Mr. Fairchild’s approach or not. What she did know was that she was stuck with him.
The next day at work, Francie asked her boss Julie Sullivan, the owner of the diner, and her regular customers if they’d heard of the fruit of the spirit. One suggestion sounded good.
Julie said maybe apples or cherries because a nice slice of pie always lifted her spirit. But, in the end, the consensus was, well, no one had the slightest idea.
“The fruit of the spirit,” Francie repeated as she walked up and down the aisles at a religious bookstore the next afternoon.